


Refugee

by Hunter_inthe_tardis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:12:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5451311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hunter_inthe_tardis/pseuds/Hunter_inthe_tardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve grown up with your Grandmother most of your life, following a horrific event involving your parents. Someone starts to get impatient with their plans for you, though, and decides to put things in motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reeling in the Years

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Implied child death. Family angst including dear dead family members. You know, like hunters are bound to have.
> 
>  
> 
> This is the backstory to a dream I had recently. The dream was super fun and inspiring, so I had to create my very first fic from it. I hope it’s good enough, and keeps you interested. I’m sorry that there’s no smut so far. Don’t worry though, it’s in the works. 
> 
> The work title is taken from the Tom Petty song, and it not meant to be a political statement of any sort. 
> 
> The chapter titles will also be 70's rock songs, because, Supernatural. 
> 
>  
> 
> And I'm terrible at original titles.

“Grams! I’m home!” You drop your bag in the hallway and start unbuttoning your coat as you walk down the hallway to the kitchen where Grams is normally sitting with a crossword and a cup of tea. The closer you get to the kitchen the more you can smell a hot metal odor. “Gram’s must have left the kettle on and forgot.” You go into the kitchen to turn the stove off to find your grandmother, the woman who raised you and kept you safe, lying on her side in the middle of the floor.

“Grams!” You run to her side. Kneeling down and grabbing her shoulder to roll her towards you, you notice that her eyes are open and her mouth is hanging slack. Quickly you check for a pulse, nothing. “No, no, no, no, Grams wake up! Grandma!” you yell.  
Its impossible to tell how long you’ve sat on your knees, bent over your grandma with your arms wrapped around her shoulders and your head buried on her chest. You can’t feel your feet any longer. You just keep wishing she would wake up. You know you should call the ambulance and have the EMTs look at her, but you already know what they’ll do. They’ll pull a blanket over her and tell you how sorry they are. What a lovely woman she was. They’ll look at you with pity. The girl who’s parents lost it and went crazy, who was raised by her grandmother for the last 10 years, only to have her grandmother die so unceremoniously and with no other family to go to, you’ll spend your last year of high school in the foster care system. You don’t want their pity. You want your Grams back.

“You know, heart disease is a leading killer of women these days. Ticking time bombs really.” The English voice drifts from the doorway making you jump.

“Who are you?” You’ve never seen him before. He’s not overly tall, but he has a commanding presence. His suit is well tailored and he has a noticeably groomed short beard. 

“Just some one who would really like to help. That’s all”

“Get out. Unless you’re a doctor who can perform miracles just get out.” Where did this guy come from? You start to go from mad to afraid. Did he kill your grandmother? You didn’t check her very closely, assuming that she was frail and sick. 

“Now, now darling. I didn’t kill your precious grandmother, if that’s what your thinking. And I’m not a doctor, though I do have a trick or two up my sleeve. It seems to me, that just about now you would do anything to get her back.”

That’s it. You’ve gone as crazy as your parents. Soon you would be raving mad, and yelling about things no one else could see. How could this guy possibly bring your grandmother back? And how had he gotten into your old farmhouse? Well, if your grandmother was really dead and this mystery man thought he could bring her back, and you were already crazy. What could it hurt? Let him try. Somewhere in the back of your mind a warning bell was ringing, trying to tell you that you were delirious with grief not madness, but you ignored it.

“Ok.”

“Ok what love?”

“Bring her back. You say you can do it so please, please do it.”

“Not so fast sweetheart, you see, everything comes with a price. No such thing as a free lunch and all that. I’m going to need something from you in return.” Suddenly, he produces a parchment document from his inside jacket pocket. Who uses parchment these days? Is all you can think. He hands the document over to you.  
“Please peruse the terms of our agreement, and when you’re ready, I’ll even let you use my pen to sign it.” He smiles smugly.

Looking thought the document, you realized how legal it was, and the strangeness of the situation dawned on you. Here you were sitting next to the body of your beloved grandmother, the only person you had left in the world, looking over a legal document hand written on parchment paper, about to bargain away- Your eyes stopped over your part of the agreement. You had been beginning to wonder how the man had this document ready, wondering if he had planned this, but the terms; they clearly indicated that he knew nothing about you at all. It was laughable. You started to laugh. Which caused you to sob. Snot dripped down your nose as hiccups caught in your chest. Suddenly, you were a hysterical mess.  
The English man stood in the doorway, “When you are quite done.” He noted with impatience. Taking a deep breath you reached your open palm towards him. A pen was dropped lightly into your hand. It was an old fashioned fountain pen with a crimson tube and gold accents. Clearly, very expensive and very old. You flattened the document on the old black and white tile floor and signed your name with a flourish at the end. You were clearly delusional now. Your forearm stung suddenly and you reached your opposite hand to push up your jacked and look.   
However, first the man grabbed your elbow and pulled you to your feet.

“Well now, it is customary to seal this exchange with a kiss on the lips, but with dear old Grandmammy dead cold at our feet, and you being a minor, a chaste kiss on my cheek should do.”

What?! What was wrong with this guy? What a weirdo. Deciding to go along with your delusion you gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Didn’t put too much effort into that, did you. Moving along then. Sit back and let daddy work.” Suddenly a chair pulled up behind you and caught your knees so that you sat down ungracefully. As soon as your behind hit the seat the chair slid back, with you in it, and bounced softly against the far wall.  
The man kneeled down where you had just been and bent over your grandmother. “Well at least your Grams keeps a clean house now doesn’t she. I hate getting my clothes dirty. Do you know how long it took me to find a tailor this good?” he preened. He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice and so you let him continue talking to and congratulating himself as he blocked his work on your grandmother with his back to you. 

“There now, the old bird should be right as rain in the next few hours.”

“Is she… alive?”

“No darling, these things take time, but she should be up and making breakfast by the time you wake up tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I’m going do be able to sleep.”

“You will.” He stood now and walked towards you. It was intimidating. He looked more like a predator now than before. Now that he was standing beside you, you had to crane your neck up to look at him. You gripped the sides of the chair to keep from shaking. You refused to let him think you were scared of him. “So what do I call you, Rumplestilskin?”  
He chuckled deeply, it echoed in a strange way, as though it was coming from a long way down a cavern. Your stomach muscles clenched. “No dear, you may call me Crowley. You’ll be seeing me around. I’ll have to come check on your end of the deal every so often.” Suddenly, you wondered if it hadn’t been so smart to think you were going to outwit him.

“What are you?”

“I’m a cross-roads demon, darling. The best there ever was” and everything went black.

You awoke in your bed the next day. Wearing a cross-country t-shirt and your favorite pajama bottoms your grandmother had made you. How did I get to bed, you wondered. Everything flooded back in. There was no way it was real, was it? You heard sounds from downstairs. Normal, everyday breakfast sounds. And you smelled toast, made from Gram’s homemade bread. Taking the stairs two at a time you used the bannister to spin your self around and back down the hallway towards the kitchen. Gram was standing at the stove, her back to you. Seeming right as rain. You ran into the kitchen as she turned around setting an egg-coated spatula in the spoon saver.

“My goodness Y/N, you haven’t been this quick to breakfast since you were little.” Before she could say anything more, you caught her in a huge hug. Grams was small and you were still worried she was fragile so you tried to be as delicate as possible. She returned the hug and then rubbed your arms. “What is all this for?”  
It all must have been a dream. Everything was back to normal; it was all just a terrible dream. Grams hand slid over your forearm causing a sharp pain, looking down you had a deep gash that had reopened and started oozing blood. “How did you do that?” Gram’s grabbed your hand and pulled your arm up to her eye height. Her normally dark brown eyes, seemed almost black for a moment. She looked up at you and you realized it must have been a trick of the light.

“I don’t know, I must have done it last night at some point.”

“Well go get the first aid kit and we’ll get it cleaned up, I don’t want you bleeding all over my clean floor!”  
As you walked down the hallway to the bathroom, you noticed your coat hanging on the peg by the front door. Your bag was where you left it. Curious, you rolled up the sleeve of your coat to get a look at the inside. There, right about where the top of your forearm would have hit, was a dark red stain that had seeped into the quilted lining. You dropped the sleeve and noticed a piece of paper sticking out of one of your pockets. You pulled it out and noticed it was a parchment envelope with a strange red wax seal. Flipping it over, you see old-fashioned script crawling along the front. “A copy for your keeping. Love, Crowley”  
Shit.

 

Life returned to normal after that day. Grams, seemed healthier than normal, vibrant even. You graduated high school, worked a part-time job and attended classes part time. Soon you were going to have to transfer schools if you wanted to complete your degree. You had completed all your introductory and basic classes at the community college and planned to go own to earn a Bachelor’s degree in Criminology. It was morbid, considering your families past, but it was what drove you and provided motivation. You worried though, you didn’t want to leave Grams behind in the house all by herself, but you couldn’t complete the degree online and get to participate in research either.

Returning home from work late one morning, you walked up the driveway to see Gram’s sitting on the porch. Walking up the steps you sat down beside her in the porch swing. “You can’t stay here forever.” She said. She seemed to be in an odd mood. A few things about Grams had been odd. It had been 5 years since the incident (as you thought of it) and Grams had never once gotten sick in that time, or seemed to age at all. At times, she seemed to space out for hours and then would return and pick up her conversation just where she’d left off. You tried to get her to go to the doctor about it but she absolutely refused, “I’m just old, there is no need to go to the doctor and have them tell me what I already know!”

“I know Grams, I just worry about what you’ll do when I’m gone.” You and Grams had already leased the pastureland surrounding the farm and the barn at the end of the property to local dairy farmers since the two of you couldn’t keep up what Gramps and your uncles had done. The house itself required a lot of maintenance though. What you two couldn’t do yourself, you hired family friends to help you with. Without your income, Grams wouldn’t be able to afford to keep the place up.

“I’ve thought about it. I’ll come with you if it’ll make you happy. I’ll live in one of those senior citizen apartments and you can come visit me whenever you want. I’ll make new old lady friends and play bridge and pinochle.”

“Grams, that’s not you. You can’t leave the farm and all the memories of Gramps and the boys.” You were careful not to mention your mother. The memories with mom had been thoroughly soured by what had happened.

“Don’t tell me what I am or am not. You are a young woman, who has already spent too much time dawdling in a small down with no opportunity. You are 23 years old and you’ve never had a boyfriend. You need to go somewhere else and make a life for yourself, meet someone nice and….” She didn’t finish that part. She wouldn’t. She knew your stance on having kids, on passing along your parents’ ‘disorders.’

“Well, if you won’t leave me here then I’ll go with you, but you’re leaving.” She had clearly been thinking about this for a while and had got herself to a point there was no deterring her.

“Grams, what will we do with the farm?” Gramps and his brothers had built the house by hand, when they all first moved out here, before he met Grams. He built the house to bring a young wife to, to make memories and family moments to last.

“We’ll rent it out. The Dawsons’ son and his wife are expecting and they won’t want to live in that barn apartment for much longer.” Taylor Dawson and his wife Jenn were high school sweethearts that had gone to school with you from pre-school on. Jenn had been a close friend and one of the only ones who wasn’t afraid to come over after what had happened with your parents.

“So you’ve just planned it all out.” You resented that Grams was making these decisions without consulting you first. You had always shared in decision-making, though she had been more impatient with your desire to stay with her in the last couple years. 

“I have. Taylor and Jenn are going to come over and help us sort through the things we don’t need, things that we’ll take with us. And they’ve agreed to let us use the garage to store things that we can’t get rid of but don’t have room for.” Now she was on a roll, revealing how far she had truly gone in this plan of hers.  
Mad at being pushed out of your own home, without any consultation, you snapped at her. It was something that you normally would never have even thought, “Well that’s mighty kind of them, rushing us right out of our own home and being so kind as to let us store our things in the murder garage. I wonder why they don’t care to go in there.”  
You had never seen your grandmother lose her temper before, she grabbed the pitcher of lemonade off the side table and flung it into the railing, shattering it and causing the pieces to rain down on the porch and into the flower beds below. She stormed off in the direction of the garage. You stood up to follow her. Damn she was fast, how did she get so fast? She arrived at the side door of the garage and pulled the keys out from her sweater pocket. You yelled to stop her “Grams don’t. I’m sorry. I just-“  
It was too late, she opened the garage and stepped in. You got to the doorway and stopped on the threshold. You hadn’t been in this building since you were eight years old. Since, your parent’s lost it. Since your mother and father systematically killed your grandfather and uncles before turning their weapons on each other. You had blocked out the memories of that day. Never went back in the garage. The shaft of light from the open door cast a lighted pathway towards the center of the building.

“It’s just a building Y/N! Same as any of the others. Bad things happen all over the world. In all kinds of places. To all kinds of people”  
You stepped into the garage. Hoping to coax your grandmother back out. Instead she grabbed a hold of the string connected to the garage door and started pulling it up. You froze again. Gradually, the whole inside became bathed in light from the two-car door. How had your 80-year-old Grams pulled that old rusted door open? Inside the garage Gramps old car sat on one side, and his workbenches lined the back walls, there were all sorts of tools and machinery piled on the bench and hung on the walls. The other side was empty. Grams whirled around, her eyes dark with rage. “Tell me what you think happened here?” Why did she want to go over this now, here?

“Grams, everyone knows what happened here. Mom and dad lost it. They went psychotic and shared a delusion. They thought they had to kill Gramps and the boys. They thought they were possessed.”

“And there’s no such thing as possession?” What on earth was she getting at?

“Please stop, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“That’s too bad. You might think you’d be more open minded, considering what you saw here. And your dealings five years ago.”

Setting aside that she had just referenced something she should know nothing about, what you saw in this garage was crazy, it wasn’t possible. You and your parents had come for a visit, from the beginning your mom kept saying that something was wrong with her dad. That he wasn’t the same Gramps. She was anxious and worried from the moment you left your home. At eight, mom and dad’s paranoia wasn’t really anything different from usual. They were always what they called “careful” they salted windowsills and drank special water, one of them would sometimes leave in the middle of the night after the phone rang, and they would return days later, exhausted and sometimes beat up. It had been normal for you. So when mom started in about Gramps, you didn’t really pay attention. You followed him out to his workshop and started asking him all kinds of questions about his tools. At first he was kind, he picked you up and set you on his work bench, he explained each tool and its use. Then he got scarier. He opened drawers and pulled out sharp and sinister looking items.   
“Do you know what this is for, baby girl? This is for getting the truth out of someone who’s being stubborn. This one is just for fun. This one, well its mostly for causing pain, pain for the person who finds the victim. Do you think your parent’s can feel pain? Not physical pain, but deep emotional loss? That’s what they deserve. They took something from me. And messed up my plans, messed-up my boss’s plans. You see, they seem to think that they have the right to go around thwarting other people’s business. It’s your father’s fault, really. If he hadn’t of fallen for your mother and dragged her into his “family trade” so to speak, well you wouldn’t exist, and she’d be fine and safe and this meat suit would still be her father.”

Your eight-year-old brain couldn’t process what he was saying to you. You heard your father’s voice in the door, “Let her be.”

“I think I won’t. You didn’t let my little one be now did you? You just killed her while she slept, sound and still in her crib. Did you know that, Y/N? Your father is a baby killer?”  
Gramps didn’t have any babies and you knew all your uncles and didn’t have any cousins. “That thing was not a baby. It was a monster, an abomination” your dad’s voice was low an dangerous. What was he talking about? Did your dad really kill babies? 

“You think our kind doesn’t care? We created something special and unique, and you took it from us.” Gramps fist tightened on the tool he was just showing you. Suddenly your mom appeared behind your father. “Oh my God, Y/N run!” she screamed.

Several things happened at once. You went to jump of the workbench your Gramps had set you on as he reached for you. Something silver shot past your face and buried itself in his arm. You saw that your father had thrown a knife at you and Gramps. Your feet hit the floor with a thud as you curled into a ball something grabbed the back of your shirt and you looked up to see your mom’s panicked face. She tore her necklace with the five-pointed amulet off her neck and pressed it into your palm. “Don’t let go of this honey, whatever you do. Now run!” You scrambled to your feed and ran towards the door, only to have your two uncles block the way. They worked on the farm their whole lives and it showed. They were huge and they loomed above you. Quickly, you veered over to the car. Your mom, seeing what happened, opened the door and shoved you in, pressing down the lock as she shut it. “Lock the others,” she yelled.  
And that was it. You watched your mother and father murder your Gramps and uncles. In a way, it was incredible. Mom was so much smaller than her brothers, but she could duck and dive and move with such grace they could barely get a hit on her. At first, before Grams had you sent to a child psychologist you swore you saw black smoke come out from your uncles bodies and attack your parents, invading their noses and mouths. That was then you watched them look at each other, and raise their guns at the other and fire. When Grams came running in she found you screaming in the car pounding your fists on the window, your mom’s necklace had cut into your small hand. You refused to unlock the doors, refusing the come out and make the scene real. Finally after the police, and ambulances arrived, one of the deputies used a small wire bar, to jimmy the lock and pull you out. You screamed and cried and clung to the vinyl seat, losing the necklace in the process.

You couldn’t make sense of what had happened, so the police and the psychologists made sense of it for you. The more you told them about your life with your parents the more they told you you were wrong and came up with the story as it was today. Your parents were deranged. They believed their family was possessed. They cornered you and your Gramps, who was a well-respected community member, he must have put you in the car, before they killed him. Then your uncles came, alerted by the commotion, and your parents killed them too. They clearly had some sort of a suicide pact and so turned their weapons on each other at the end. There it was, a nice and clean and over.

 

Back in the present.  
You meet your Grams’ eyes and they are flooded with blackness. “Poor baby girl” she mocks, “Maybe if you weren’t so suggestible you would have been a little wiser to what was happening when the boss showed up. He’s getting tired of waiting.” It dawns on you then. Who Crowley was; the deal was rigged and your grandma had most likely been brain dead when you found her. He hadn’t brought her back, he just used her body as a puppet. You thought you were the one getting away with something, when all the time he had fooled you.

“Was my Grams ever really in there with you?” you spit at the demon.

“To a degree. She sure gave a fright when the boss showed up. Gave the poor old bird a heart attack popping up like he did. He brought her back enough so that I could inhabit her. I was already inside her when you waltzed in. He has unfinished business with you, thanks to your parents. You could have had it all nice and easy. Go to college, fall in love, start a family. Pay the boss back. But you wanted to stay here with a decrepit old woman. So we have to force your hand.”

So now, after all this time, you know the things your parents said were true. You cross the space to the car and open the back door. Lying on the floorboard is your mother’s necklace.

“Why don’t we make this simple and easy,” the demon coaxes, unconcerned with your actions, “you just come with me live your life however you like, and fulfill your end of the deal. And I’ll let some of dear old Granny’s consciousness leak out for you. It will be just like old times. I think I may even like a retirement community. Better than this old shack at least.”

You know the demon wont kill you, or at least you’re banking on it, since Crowley needs you alive to complete the deal. You wrap your fingers tightly around the necklace; 15-year-old blood is crusted on to the points of the star from where you gripped it so tight it cut your hand. You need time. Time to get away. To figure out what is happening and how to fight it. You have a half-baked idea and you just have to see if it will work. Otherwise, you’re backed in a corner.

You back out of the car. Though every nerve in your body screams for you to run the opposite way of the demon, you approach it. “Grams? Are you in there?”  
The demon cackles. “You must be so dense!” It knocks a fist on your grandmother’s head. “Mostly, brain-dead remember? She can hear you, but rest assured, she ain’t responding.”

“Ok. I just hoped- I’ll go with you. I’ll do it. I just need to know that she’s there, that I can still reach her. I’d like to hug her, I just want to know if she can feel it.”

“Whatever. I guess she can, if you need to believe that.” the demon shrugs. You’re standing toe to toe with the demon in your Grams now. You lean over slightly, and though you have to force your body to move, you wrap your arms around your Gram’s body, and slam the pentagram down on the back of her neck. “I love you, Gram.”  
The demon roars and gusts of wind whip your hair around. Suddenly, Grams body goes limp in your arms. You set her down on the cement floor. This time, no tears come. “I’m sorry Gram, I should have just let you go. I’m sorry I trapped you.” You kiss her forehead the same way she kissed yours every night growing up. Your stomach twists as you set her head down and walk out of the garage.

You figure you have about 20 minutes before someone else shows up. Your guessing at this point that you didn’t kill the demon, and an alert will be sounded soon. You run into the house tucking the broken necklace into your jeans pocket as you go. You run up the stairs to the second floor landing grabbing the attic trapdoor’s rope as you reach the top. You pull down the ladder and crawl up in the attic. Grams church group put all your parents things up here, when it was too painful for her to do. Behind the Christmas decorations and boxes of old toys and memorabilia you find your parents boxes. Tearing into the first box you find a sealed evidence bag (they confiscated all of your parents personal belongings to analyze after the tragedy and gave them back after determining your parents were nuts). In it is your parents planners and notes. Beneath that is a satchel, you grab it and stuff the police bag in it. The rest of the items in the boxes don’t seem to be anything of note. Frustrated, you kick the boxes over, spilling the contents all over the attic floor. A key slides across the worn wooden floor. Picking it up, you read the tag on it stating that it belongs to your grandfather’s gun safe in the basement. Why your parents would have had that key is beyond you, but you grab it and head to the basement. 12 minutes left.

Opening the safe you find your grandfather’s old hunting rifles. You don’t even know how to use them so you leave them be. At the bottom of the safe is a wooden box. You open it to find an array of metal knifes and other objects. You notice a missing spot. Picking up the knife next to the empty space you recognize it as a twin; the knife your dad had on him when he attacked your Gramps. You throw box the knifes back in the satchel. Underneath the box is a old index card, your Grams’ cramped handwriting stands out on it: “Baby girl, I feel foolish doing this, but just in case your mamma was right and something terrible was after her and your daddy (I don’t know why else they would have done what they did) you may need these. I don’t expect to live forever and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to speak out loud the things your parents told me before they ran out to the garage. I’m sorry, girl. I’m sorry something dark is after you and your family. You may find use these, even if its just to answer questions about your parents.”  
Dammit, Gram. Could you be more convoluted, you thought.

 

Running up to the kitchen you remember your parents and their obsession with salt, so you throw the entire container of Morton’s in the bag as well. You grab the keys for the ’77 Chevy stepside, your purse, and the cash envelope you and Grams used for gas and groceries and to pay the local kids that helped you maintain the place. You know there’s at least 600 in cash in there, mostly from your tips at the diner. You go to leave out the kitchen side door, and hesitate. You’re about to leave the last place that meant anything to you. You have no one else in this world to turn to, and you have no idea if you’ll ever be back. You left your grandmother’s body in the garage and when the police find her, and notice that you’ve fled, they are going to suspect you fell prey to your parents mental issues. “I guess I sort of have,” you mumble to yourself. You run up stairs and grab the family album from your Gram’s room. It’s covered in dust and in the bottom drawer of her bedside table. She couldn’t look at it anymore, but she couldn’t get rid of it either. With that you run back down the stairs and throw the bag in the truck. Hopefully, you can get far enough away people wont recognize the truck before find your grandmother.  
You hit the end of the driveway and have no idea which way to go. Town is to the left. The Minnesota state line is somewhere to the right. You check the gas gage, full tank. To Minnesota then.


	2. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After running from your home with no place to go, you decide to reach out to one of your parents' contacts you discover in their planner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Alchohol, Angst, Grieving, ect.

You drove for days. At first you worried, that law enforcement would have an APB out on the truck, but you didn’t have too many options. Terrified of being around too many people, in case one of them turned out to be one of the monsters you’d encountered before, public transport was out of the question. Also, you had no idea where you were going so choosing a destination from a train or bus station seemed overwhelming. You opted to keep to country roads, follow the speed limit and seem as law abiding and invisible as possible, hoping that no one in the country would look twice at your step-side pickup. It helped that you and Gram hadn’t been overly mechanically inclined or very proud of the truck. The thick layer of dust made the faded orange paint especially hard to identify. You were becoming dirty enough to match your truck. You hadn’t thought to pack clothes for yourself before leaving, and so had to pick up a few things at thrift stores, you tried to stay as cheap as possible.

Each night you found a quiet side road to park, lock the doors and sleep and study your parents few belongings including the notes and planners. Reading their cramped notes was like trying to decipher Latin (you barely passed Spanish), and most of what you could read seemed just as though they were the traveling odd job contractors they claimed to be. Dates and locations of jobs were recorded along with what sort of work it was; clean ups, plumbing, building, restoration, and so on. Though you knew this had to be a cover for what they really had been doing.

Your sleep was shit; each night dreaming of black orbs overtaking your grandmother’s sky blue eyes as she screamed.

Eventually, you had to make a decision. The cash wasn’t going to last forever and you couldn’t aimlessly drive around the Midwest for much longer. Finally you decided to try to find someone who could give you more answers than your parents few belongings. Flipping to the contact section of the planner, several names were listed in alphabetical order with no addresses; just phone numbers and a significant portion of the contacts were crossed though with black ink. Luckily, your mom had been meticulous in recording who they had contacted in their various “appointments.” A name that came up more often than any other was that of Bobby Singer. Flipping through the planner, it seemed that he had been the referral source for several of your parents’ dealings, and had even accompanied them on occasion. You racked your memory, trying to see if you remembered anyone like that, but your parents had rarely taken you with them; usually one of them stayed behind or they dropped you off with Grams and Gramps. You checked the back contact section of the planner, hoping beyond hope that Bobby’s name wasn’t one of the ones that had been crossed through, and thanking god (if there was one) that cell phones had barely been invented when your parents were alive, otherwise they would have likely not kept a planner. You found the name, and it wasn’t crossed through!

Firing up the truck you drove to the nearest travel center. Parking off to the back next to a row of old pay phones, your hands shook as you turned the ignition off. The gas station was busy with truckers and locals filling up and grabbing snacks. You had avoided people for the last few weeks so suddenly being around a crowd of busy people was overwhelming. That and the fact you were about to reach out to someone that you weren’t even sure would or could help you, if he was even still alive. Slowly, you climb out of the cab and walk over to the phone booths. The first two are vandalized beyond functioning. The third is filthy but seems to work. You put in a dollars worth of quarters, unsure of how many it will take to make a long distance phone call (you chucked your own phone soon after leaving home, afraid you could be tracked with it).

It picked up on the third ring, “Yeah?”

“Hi, um, I’m trying to reach Bobby Singer. I’m sorry if this isn’t his number anymore, I found it in an old address book of my parents and I hoped that it was still, you know, right.” You were rambling but it was uncontrollable.

After a long silence a gruff voice asked “Who are your parents?”

“Um, well, they died. A long time ago. Um, 15 years, I guess.”

More silence from the other end, you realize that you didn’t say your parents names, so you state them.

“Shit! Y/N? Where’s your grandma?” The surprise and recognition in his voice somehow causes you to relax and become nervous at the same time. This guy knows about you, what happened to your parents, and where you were supposed to be.

“How do you know my name? And Gram’s is dead too.” Your voice quivers at the end of the sentence.

“So why did you call me? I just worked with them.” He’s playing dumb now. He doesn’t sound mad at you exactly, but he sounds angry, like he knows what you’re about to tell him and he doesn’t want to hear it; hopes his assumptions aren’t true.

“You are Bobby Singer, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I know this might sound strange, but did you ever know about any other kinds of jobs my parents might have done, like, um, things that seem magic or like witchcraft or something?”

“What happened to your grandma, Y/N?” He avoids the question, searching for information himself instead.

You are seriously close to crying now.  What if you’re wrong and this guy thinks you’re crazy and calls the cops on you, but you are so desperate for someone to help you that all you can do is hope he believes you and that you haven’t had a psychotic break yourself. “Something took her over. Her eyes turned black and she said the most horrible things. She was mean like she never had been before. And she reminded me of what really happened when my parents died. Please don’t think I’m crazy.” You hadn’t really meant to say the last part out loud.

You heard muttering and cursing on the other line, “Where are you?”

 

You weren’t dumb. You told Bobby about where you were; somewhere that was either Wisconsin or the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  You’d stopped paying attention to state lines and you were never good with accents anyway. He offered to fill you in on the “family business” and to try to help you out of your current problem, “Your parents’ wouldn’t have wanted this for you, kid. I owe it to them to try to help take care of you, lord knows they helped me out of some tough spots.” He was trying to sound tough, but you could hear the care and concern through his voice.

 

Bobby was understanding of your hesitancy to tell him exactly where you were and asked you to meet him in a diner on the outskirts of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It was somewhere public, not his home either. He seemed to have his own trust issues as well. You agreed to meet him where he had requested. You could always turn around and drive off if it didn’t look safe or if you changed your mind.

You held your breath for a moment, counted to ten, and walked into the gas station, picking up a burner phone, some water and some snacks, trying to look normal and ignore all the other people. Getting back into the truck you crouched down and pulled out the old 70s atlas from beneath the bench. Using the cap from your water you measured the distance between where you thought you were now and Sioux Falls, it seemed about 10 hours by the main freeways and more like 14-16 hours by the back roads. It wouldn’t do you any good to have avoided the freeways all this time just to start using them and get caught and you had decided to meet Bobby two days from now in the afternoon around 3, giving you a little over 36 hours to get there; you decided to use the back roads, it would give to time to think about your new direction.

 

 

You decided to splurge on a motel room, an hour outside of Sioux Falls the night before you were supposed to meet Bobby. You hadn’t slept in a real bed since leaving home, and your back and neck were starting to protest. Not to mention the vague sleep-deprived headache you always seemed to have now. You’ve showered in truck stop travel centers, but you had to pay for five minutes at a time, and being so exposed in a semi-public space made you especially nervous, so it wasn’t as though you’d really scrubbed your scalp or rinsed very well in a while. You were kind of grimy.  You were kind of tired. For all you knew this Bobby might kill you tomorrow. You were going to stay in a hotel and spoil yourself, just in case.

You checked in and grabbed what little stuff you had in the truck and headed to your room. You locked the doorknob, the dead bolt, and the chain once you got inside, and bee-lined for the bathroom, eager to rid yourself of your sweaty, road worn clothes. Unfortunately, or fortunately, you realized that if you showered now, you would have to put back on your dirty old clothes in order to go out and get food. You could wash your clothes, but they wouldn’t be dry until tomorrow. With one more, lingering, desire filled gaze at the shower, you turned, grabbed your keys and headed out.

A few blocks away you found the local grocery store/pharmacy, and grabbed some deli food and a few toiletries you were low on or had done without since your time on the road. You were able to grab cheap packages of basic underwear and socks (those you only had a couple pair of and weren’t sure you could get them totally clean in the hotel room sink).

On your way back to your truck, you notice a liquor store down the block. You climb in the truck and set your bags next to you, glancing back up at the liquor store. You’d never been a drinker, you’d never had much of a social life to get you started drinking, but you knew enough about the world to know that people drank when they had bad days, when they just didn’t want to give a fuck, or when they were facing something extraordinarily stressful. You felt like you’d earned it. Checking your wallet, you see you still have about 60 bucks left, which you hope is enough to get you drunk, and get you some gas and food tomorrow. After that, you’ll be relying on Bobby’s help. If he’s any help.

You straighten your back and walk into the liquor store. It’s overwhelming; you thought it would be simple for some reason. You wander around staring at the signs over each section labeling them as “Whiskey, Rum, Tequila, Vodka, Liquors, Gin” and so on. You have enough experience to know that you sip whiskey, shoot tequila, and mix rum and vodka with soda. You are clueless when it comes to the gin and liquors. You pick up a bottle of Southern Comfort and start to read the label hoping for some clue as to what the fuck it is and if it will taste good.

The store is empty other than the attendant until the door swings open and you hear deep laughter. Glancing over you see two tall men heading your way, relaxed and joking with each other. They are heading your way, and you are suddenly aware of how large they are. Large and attractive. The taller one has shaggy brown hair and dimples. The less tall one (you can’t exactly call him short) has close cropped hair, and faint scruff. You are also suddenly aware of how dirty you are. They are head over towards you’re corner of the store and you feel an intense need to disappear. Their presence is commanding and its unnerving you. You start staring at the Southern Comfort label again.

“So-Co hmm? Goes down easy, but it’ll give you a headache the next morning, for sure.” a gravely voice states next to you. The shorthaired man smiles at you, his distinctly green eyes crinkling in the corners. 

“Um. Yeah. I-uh, just need something to take the edge off I guess.” You side-eye him as you go back to looking at the shelf, deciding you just need to pick something with the best label and get out of there. You’ve avoided people for the last few weeks, and men for longer than that, so interacting with him is skyrocketing your anxiety, and you can’t seem to get a hold of yourself. You go to place the Southern Comfort back on the shelf, but you’re a little shaky. It falls out of your hand and starts to crash down to the ground and trigger a full on panic attack, but the man catches it right before it smashes on the linoleum.

“Whoa, there! You break it you buy it here, I’m pretty sure,” he winks at you. He scans the shelf quickly before grabbing a clear bottle with a parchment label and red wax top. “Maker’s Mark. It’s sweet, but not like So-Co. Drink it with some ice,” he hands it to you smiling. “Hope your night gets better.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, staring at the bottle.

“Dean, c’mon, Bobby’s waiting!” the taller man hollers from over at the cashier having already gathered their order. You wonder at the name Bobby, but dismiss it as a coincidence.

“Later,” he grins at you again and touches your shoulder before walking off to join his friend.

After they’ve left, you find the spot the bottle came from and check the price. It’s a little more than you want to spend, but you find a smaller bottle of the same thing next to it (who knew they came in various sizes!) and pick that instead.

 

You pay for your bottle and head back to the motel. After stripping your clothes, washing them and hanging them off the back of the chair by the heater, you hop in the shower and stay there until the water runs cold. You put on brand new, if slightly scratchy, pharmacy store underwear and plop down on the bed, pulling out the food and flipping on the TV. You stare over at the bottle on the dresser, and go to grab a glass from the bathroom, realizing that you don’t have ice, and will have to venture down to the ice machine if you’re going to make the drink properly.

You decide to wrap both towels around you. Tucking one in at your waist and one at your armpits. You grab the ice bucket and run down the causeway down to the ice machine. You feel giddy at the possible indecency of it all. You’re head filled with the idea that, by drinking the liquor the way he recommended, you’re somehow bringing the stranger closer to you, and making him proud of you. Your head is full of fantasies.

You run on your tiptoes back to your room and flop on the bed. You roll over to grab the glass off the bedside table and see the family album staring at you from the duffle bag on the floor, a picture of your whole family on the front porch together smiling up at you. Suddenly, you feel like the biggest asshole ever. Your whole family is dead. You’ve been on the run for the last six weeks. You’ve bargained away your grandmother. Your meet a total stranger tomorrow, who you don’t even know if you can trust. And you’re giddy over a boy. You’re embarrassed even though no one is around.

Tears begin to well up. Stomping over to the dresser you grab the whiskey and ice and dump them into the glass. In movies, the protagonist always downs the glass in one gulp, you try that, and end up choking on the whiskey and a piece of ice and spitting your drink all over the floor. Slumping to the floor, you let the tears flow freely. Your towel get up has come loose, but in your inconsolable state you can’t care. You bundle up the top towel and scream into it, getting snot and tears all over it.

 

 

All you wanted was a night to yourself, a night away from the constant running and terrifying unknown, but the moment you stopped the weight of all you’ve experienced and everything you’ve lost came crashing down. The rest of the night was spent in phases of uncontrollable sobbing and then staring at the wall dissociated from your surroundings. You got better at drinking though, learning that sipping was better than chugging. You went through the family photo album for the first time in years, seeing how loving your mom’s family had been. Your mom’s older brothers were twins, and there were plenty of pictures of them running around the farm together grinning. Your mom was a baby in the first part of the album and grew up throughout it. Her brothers always seemed to flank her, their baby sister. Protecting her and watching over her, beaming at the camera each time she hit a milestone; riding a bike, preschool graduation, her first dance. In a wedding picture, your uncles were pretending to interrogate your father, and then seemed to be holding him hostage right before the ceremony. You’d never gotten the chance to really appreciate how close your family was before the tragedy. It made you cry harder.

 

Morning came too soon. You’d barely slept until the early monring hours, and your pint of whiskey was gone. You turned over on the bed, glad you hadn’t bought the whole big bottle, and looked at your phone.

“FUCK!” You had 45 minutes to get to the diner that was an hour away. You quickly threw your somewhat still damp clothes on and shoved everything else in the duffle.

It took an hour to find the dinner outside of the city. Looking around the dinner, there are several couples and families in booths and a couple old scruffy looking men at the counter. For a moment, you worried that you were too late. That you’ve missed the opportunity to get help and some answers, then you see the late middle aged man sitting in the back corner booth. He has a short, grizzled beard, and is wearing a baseball cap. He waves slightly at you from his booth. You head back there, apprehensive.

“You look like your damn parents.”

“Bobby?” you know its probably him, but you’re at a loss for what else to say.

“Yeah, kid. That’s me. Now, tell me about what the heck is going on.”

You and Bobby talk about what has happened to you. He tells you a bit about your parents but is cautious that other people may be over hearing. He asks if you have a place to stay or anywhere to go, or any way to eat. You feel pathetic about your expenditures the night before and admit that you don’t have anything anymore.

Bobby looks at you hard and slides a flask across the table. Your stomach churns at the thought of more alcohol. “I’m sorry, I don’t want that.”

“I’m not asking you if you do. I need you to take a drink of that for me. I have to make sure you’re who you say you are.”

“I’m sorry I just overdid it last night. And I-“

“Look girl, its not booze! Its holy water, and I need you to drink it. If you’re human, nothing will happen, hell it will probably help your hangover. If you’re possessed, it’ll burn you inside out.”

You stare hard at him and drink the whole flask in one go.

“Ok, you got a car?”

“Yeah, a truck”

“Fine, follow me home. It’s safe to talk more there and we can figure out what to do next.”

 

To you’re surprise you start heading back in the direction you came from, passing through the same small town. You follow Bobby’s car into the driveway of an old farmhouse with a junkyard next to it. The house reminds you of home, and your throat starts to tighten.

Before you know it a black muscle car pulls up behind you boxing you in the driveway. You start to panic and stare in the rearview mirror as two men get out of the car and head towards the truck. Two men you recognize.

“Balls! Its fine! She’s fine!” You hear Bobby yell. The men are on either side of your truck now. You had the foresight to lock the drivers’ side door but not the passenger side, and the taller man opens the door on that side. You back up to the drivers’ side, uncomfortably realizing that the other man is just a pane of glass behind you.

“You idgits! You’re scaring the be-jesus outta her!”

The tall man leans over and smiles at you. “So you’re Bobby’s latest project kid. Welcome!” He extends a hand to you, and he radiates kindness and warmth. “I’m Sam.”

You regard him warily. “It’s ok. I promise I won’t bite.” His smile just lights up the cab of the truck. Despite your concerns, you see Bobby watching over Sam’s shoulder and you giving you an encouraging smile. Once again you realize you don’t have a whole lot of options, and you’re likely going to end up dead no matter what, so you might as well take a chance here. You reach out your hand to Sam’s. He gently pulls you out of the truck and on to your feet. He rests a hand on your shoulder and looks into your eyes reassuringly, “You are ok now. Calling Bobby was the best thing you could have done.” It seems to be this man’s mission to comfort and reassure.

You see the other man, the one who recommended the damn whiskey, walking around the front of your truck. “Hey again sweetheart, I wish I would have known it was you last night. You would have had someone to drink with and it would saved Bobby a lot of worry about you.” He smiles at you cockily. “I’m Dean.”


	3. We Are Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get to know Bobby and the boys, and decide what to do with your life next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really turning into a slow burn, maybe even a slow cooker, rather. It heats up in the next part a bit. Promise.  
> Also, this chapter is a little shorter, but it's because I wanted the next part to happen at the beginning of a chapter rather than in the middle of one. Enjoy.

After coaxing you from the truck and getting you in Bobby’s house, you sat around the kitchen table and listened to Bobby tell you more about your parents’ lives as hunters. Sam and Dean explained lore and added bits of sympathy from their own experiences.

Bobby eventually asked you to explain in detail what had happened to you. You knew Bobby was in the know about how your parents actually died, so you picked up the story from there, telling them about the cover up and the police and social workers insistence that your parent’s had killed their family during a psychotic break and that the things you thought you saw were fantasies created by a young mind to deal with horrific trauma. You explained that you and your Grams had lived normal lives after that.

When it came time to explain how you found your grandmother dead on the floor, you suddenly felt ashamed. Bobby and the Winchesters had explained enough about demons by that time to make you aware of how foolish you were. You didn’t want them to know about what an idiot you’d been. You didn’t want to share with them how gullible you’d been, how naïve thinking you could fool a demon. There was also something different about your agreement from what the Winchesters had described as typical demon deals; Crowley didn’t ask for your soul. So, you skipped to finding your Grams possessed and selling the house, then goading and attacking you.

Dean asked how you managed to “gank” the demon. Pulling the necklace out of your pocket, you showed them and described how you pressed it to the demon, based on hope and the memory that your mom seemed to think it would keep you safe.

Sam suddenly sucked in his breath, clearly recognizing the charm, and Dean softly whistled. Bobby just looked at it sadly.

“You’re daddy gave that to your momma when she became a hunter, so that he knew she’d always be safe from possession.” Bobby sighed. “You should be wearing it. It’s a valuable piece of protection and those are hard to come by.”

“I figured, but the chain is broken so I’ve just been keeping it in my pocket.”

Dean rolled his eyes and reached out his hand. “Now, that’s something I can fix. I’m better with my hands” he winks.

You held out the necklace and dropped it into his open palm, his fingers brushed the underside of your wrist as he grasped the necklace.

“That’s an anti-possession pendant, Y/N. By wearing it, or having it on you demons can’t take possession of you, which is why when you hit the demon inhabiting your grandmother with it, the demon ghosted out.” Sam explained further.

Dean left the room with your necklace and Bobby turned to you, “Y/N, normally when demons leave their hosts by ghosting, as we call it, that black smoke you saw, the host lives. They may be unconscious for a time, but they live. What happened to your gran after the demon checked out?” Bobby looked at you seeming to know that there was more to the story.

“I took her pulse, sh-she was just gone, there was nothing there.”

Sam had been on his computer during the last part of your story. He cleared his throat and spun the computer towards Bobby.

“So, check this out.” he starts.

Your heart began to race, your fingers tingled and your chest tightened. You had never thought to try to look up what the news said happened. You didn’t really have the resources to anyway, and you were too busy running. You fidgeted with the label on your beer, worried at what they might find out about you, or what had happened if you were wrong about your Grams being dead.

“It looks like they did an autopsy on her grandma, and found that she died of a heart attack. The local sheriff wanted to Y/N for questioning but since there was no foul play, they just put out a missing persons. They’re worried she ran off after her grandmother’s death, since it happened in the same place her parent’s murdered her family.”

Sam looks up at you suddenly, with an expression mixed with pity and apology; he seemed to have gotten so caught up in his research he forgot you were there.

“You’re not wanted as a suspect, Y/N.” Sam stated, trying to be reassuring.

“So can I just go back then?” You knew this probably wasn’t at all possible, but part of you hoped you could get the missing persons taken care of, pick up a few more mementos, and sign whatever paperwork you needed to let Taylor and Jenn have the place; you no longer cared to have any association with it. You could move on with your life from there.

“I know you’re smart enough to already know the answer to that. It’s not safe to go home just yet. Whatever group of demons your parents pissed off probably still have eyes on the place. Hell, they could even be wearing the sheriff as a meat suit, just waiting for you to come back and talk to him. It smells like a trap to me.” Bobby’s words bring back the harsh reality of your situation. Sam nods along with him.

“So, what if I just call? Let them know I’m safe and they don’t need to have a missing person for me?” You look at Bobby, already knowing the answer, but you can’t help but plead; your Gram’s would kill you if she knew you just left the house sitting as it was, without taking care of business, and letting all your neighbors worry.

Sam speaks up again, “That’s probably not the best idea either. They’ll just be encouraged to start up the hunt.” He looks at you sadly, “Sometimes you just have to disappear.”

“You’re going to have to make due with us for a while. We might not be the best company but we’re not as bad as we look, mostly” Bobby side eyes Dean as he walks back into the kitchen.

“So you’re sticking around, eh? Welcome to Bobby’s home for wayward souls!” Dean plops a toolbox and a fly tying rig down on the table, hooks your necklace up to the rig and starts working on it.

“What we need to figure out is why, after all this time and both your parents gone, they decided to come for you.” Bobby stares hard at you, while Sam arches his eyebrows questioningly. “Do you have any idea what their game plan was?”

You were tempted to tell them everything then, hoping that maybe they would help you find a way out of your predicament. The problem was, it was kind of moot. They couldn’t rewind your life, or bring back your Grams so the only thing left was to go forward. You bit your tongue once again, biting back the truth of why the demons came for you this time. Instead you reach into your bag and pull out your mom’s planner, “This is all I managed to grab from the house that might help. I think it records all of my parent’s jobs and contacts, it’s where I found your number.”

You hand the book over to Bobby and his eyes brighten, “Well this is a damn good start. Your dad used to tease your mom endlessly about her meticulous organization and documentation, but it came in handy more than once before.”

***

After giving the book over to Bobby and Sam, you felt exhausted and relieved. Your eyes drift over to Dean who is absorbed in fixing the broken chain of your necklace; peering through the magnifying class and using tapered pliers to twist and squeeze the loops back together, his tongue slightly protruding from his lips in concentration.

You shake yourself from your observations of Dean, back to your present problem. With the weight of deciphering your parent’s work distributed among more expert people, you started to feel the same loss of compression from the night before. As thought all of your fears and worries had been pressed so tightly that you could keep your composure, as they unraveled within you, emotions and tears threatened to overwhelm you again.

Bobby looks up from pouring over the planner and notices the tears welling up in your eyes. “Oh balls, lets get you a room. You probably need a good nights rest and some time alone.” Bobby looks like a roughneck, but you’re coming to realize his grisly exterior masks a kind and gentle personality.

“Thanks. Mostly, I’m just tired.” You are desperate to save face in front of these men, for some reason you don’t want them thinking you’re a big crybaby.

Dean stands up, “It’s not perfect, but I’m more of a mechanic than a jewelry maker.”

“Maybe it will last longer this way.” You smile up at him.

Dean brushes your hair aside and clasps the repaired chain around your neck.

“Don’t take that off.” One of his large hands rests on the crook of your collarbone, squeezing gently to emphasize his point.

“Dean, show her the spare room so she can turn in. We can pick this up again in the morning.”

“C’mon kid, you look like hell.” Green eyes twinkly at you teasingly as he grabs your bag and heads down the hallway.

“And Dean,” you head Bobby call after you, “Give it a rest.”

***

The next few days Bobby spent going through your parents’ planner looking for clues to what business they might have gotten tangled in that would have led to the demons taking revenge in the way they did. It’s slow process because each entry seems to be written in code, but it quickly becomes apparent that it was not a standard code; your mom was using her own personal form of mnemonics. This meant each new job or monster she referenced by whatever made sense to her at the time. So you and Bobby were stuck trying to think like a woman who had been dead for nearly 20 years.

Each time you figured out what kind of creepy-crawly she was talking about, Bobby, and Sam and Dean, if they were around, would fill you in on the details of the beast. And so, your knowledge of what exactly hunters did grew. Knowing you couldn’t go back to your old life (the chances of ever using your own social security number and birthdate were pretty low), and that you still needed to learn how to defend yourself from the demons after you, becoming a hunter seemed like a logical next step. What did you have left to lose, other than your life, which didn’t mean a lot to anyone left on this earth.

Finally, one night drinking beers with Bobby and Sam, you shared your wish.

“Train me to hunt.”

“No.” Bobby stares you down over his beer.

Sam huhrumphs and gets up to grab more beer. Clearly aware of how fun this conversation is going to be.

“Look. I can’t go back. I don’t have any family left. As far as I can tell we can’t tell for sure that the demons are done with me, so I have to be able to defend myself. I need to be able to look for answers that aren’t going to be in that planner, and that’s probably going to mean fighting. My parents were both hunters, so its in my blood and you were already surprised I was able to fend of the demon in the garage.” You tick off your reasons on your fingers to help make your point.

Bobby rubs his beard, while Sam runs his fingers through his hair, eyebrows arched. Both of them avoid eye contact with you. Dean had left earlier this week to meet up with someone called Cas-teal or Krastle, who was supposed to be able to help with something else the boys were working on. Though they didn’t let you in on the project.

Sam leaned forward, elbows resting on the table and hands interlaced in front of him.

“Look Y/N, this life, it’s not great. You’ve already had it tough, but it will probably get so much worse. Right now, you can still walk away. We can make you a new identity. You can go have a normal life. Believe me, that’s all I wish for sometimes.”

“And if you see anything weird, call us. We’ll handle it.” Bobby adds

“No. My life hasn’t actually been normal since my parents had me, not really. Even if I had gone and had a normal life, I probably still would have ended up a hunter anyway. Look at all the other examples of hunter’s kids. Look at you and Dean, Sam.”

“We are not good examples.”

“Well it seems to be that or end up dead. I might as well be a hunter in the mean time.”

Bobby ran his hands over his face and through his beard again, then adjusted his cap slightly.

“I’m still inclined to tell you no, but you’ve gone and proved yourself as stubborn as your dad, and as good at arguing as your mom. I remember an argument between them about this same thing only regarding your mom going on and on until your mom finally won, and the rest of us with ‘em finally got some sleep.”

You beamed at Bobby, you really thought it would take longer to have them agree with your request.

“Don’t get all self-gratified on me. I don’t trust you not to go looking for some two-bit hunter to train you if we say no, so you might as well stay here where we can at least teach you right.”

You bounced out of your chair and around the table, planting a kiss squarely on Bobby’s cheek.

“Your figgin’ parents would kill me if they knew I was letting you into this life.” He grumped. “And I thought raising boys was hard.”

“Have you ever even fired a gun?” Sam asks.

***

Dean returned a few days later. When he discovered you were going to start training to hunt, he initially balked like Sam and Bobby had.

“It’s not worth it.” Sam told him.

“We already tried to discourage her, and all it did was make her more determined. Bobby’s afraid she’ll go and get killed training with some other hunter.”

“Bobby’s probably right about that.”

Dean wrapped his arm around you then, squeezing you into a sideways bear hug.

“Well, apparently you can’t be pretty and have common sense” He smiled down at you.

“I am kinda glad you’re sticking around though”

Looking up at those crinkled emerald eyes, you were pretty glad you got to stick around as well.


	4. Chapter 4 - Song TBD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hang out with Dean... and things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still very much in draft, but I felt bad about the lag between postings, and the content is here. I'll be going back and fixing issues (specifically the mess that are all the tense mix ups). So this is mostly for the folks who have been waiting patiently for the next parts. 
> 
> I'm actually considering going back and doing a whole re-write to fix issues in this series at some point, as it was the first one I wrote and my style and voice have improved over the last few months. (and I love this story and really want to do it justice and not have silly errors)

“Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit!” You pulled at your hair as you stalked through the field near Bobby’s. 

You’d been training for a few months and had been doing extraordinarily well so far. Hunting skills seemed to come easily to you. Throwing knifes was quickly becoming your specialty. Bobby took the lead in most of your training but Sam and Dean pitched in when they were around. You had gotten the chance to meet a few other hunters who swung by Bobby’s on occasion.

Everything was going as well as it could, so of course you had to go and throw a wrench in it. You had to go and kiss Dean-freakin-Winchester. 

Marching further into the field you berated yourself for your stupidity; for letting yourself develop feelings you weren’t supposed to have. Sure, you’d dated people before, though you kept it from Grams because you didn’t need her to get excited and start planning your wedding and life the first time you mentioned someone, and it wasn’t as though you wanted the same things your Grams hoped you’d have. You never let yourself get too attached to anyone you dated, and once they started to love you, you broke it off, or waited for it to peter out when you didn’t return the sentiment. 

You were not allowed to have those sorts of feelings for people, so all of Dean Winchester’s stupid smiles and excuses to touch you or brush by you was just irritating… right? All of his invitations to go on food runs, or take target practice together, and the long conversations that happened on these excursions were just hunter camaraderie… right? And even if all of those things were meant to mean more, you’d gotten to know the Winchesters well enough to know Dean’s reputation with women.

For all your rationalization you still felt drawn to the tall, intimidating man who was also so disarming when he focused his charm and attention on you, standing close enough to see the freckles splashed across his face. 

 

***

_ Earlier _

When Dean returned from a hunt and asked if you would go target practice with him, you pushed your feelings aside and said yes. 

Dean brought out a large rifle, and began prepping it.

“Whoa, that’s a big gun”

“Yeah sweetheart. It’s got a big kick too so you better be ready for it.”

Dean showed you how to load and unload it, how to put the safety on, and handed it over to you. It was similar to the other firearms you’d handled recently, and you were able to successfully load it the first time. 

“Good. Now aim over at the target and give it a try.”

You toke aim and fired. It sure as hell had a kick. You felt the muzzle rise up and the moment you fired and the shot went wild. You took an involuntary step back.

“Holy Shit!” You dropped the weapon and clicked on the safety. Dean chuckled behind you.

“Told you it had a hell of a kick. The trick is to relax and remain attentive at the same time. Here…” Dean picked the gun up. 

Suddenly you’re in a damn romance movie; Dean’s stands behind you, his arms guiding yours, and his chest pressing into your back. His chin grazes the top of your head, just enough so that you feel his stubble grazing and catching on your hair. He places the gun back in your hands.

“Stay relaxed. Now that you know what’s coming, just relax and wait for the kick before you try to steady it.” He wiggles your arms a little bit. “If you tense up, you won’t have any extra strength to respond when it kicks, plus it will pound into your shoulder and give you a hell of a bruise.”

He pulled his hand back and pressed into the already tender spot on your shoulder where the butt of the rifle rests. 

“Ok. Try again.” Dean stepped back and you took a deep breath to clear your mind and exhale his distracting scent. You aim for the beer bottle again. Breath in, relax, breath out and fire. The bottle disintegrates into shards. 

“YES!” You clicked the safety on as quickly as you could and set the gun down, as you were taught.

“Atta girl!”

You spun around as Dean’s well muscled arms wrap around your smaller frame in a huge hug. 

Once again the smell of leather and vanilla air freshener envelops you. Laughing, you grab his face and guide it down to yours, pressing your lips against his.

Dean freezes. 

Then he presses back into you. His lips working against yours as his hand slips into your hair and cradles your head, keeping you close to him. His other hand slides across your back to the opposite side, gripping the curve of your waist and drawing you flush against him. 

For a while, you lose yourself in the kiss; thinking how much better if feels than you could have imagined. It feels too good. And then you remember. You remember who you are, and that you can’t have this with anyone, especially not with Dean Winchester. 

You break the kiss and step back. Dean’s hands come away from you and he stands facing you palms spread out towards you. He knits his brows in confusion when you don’t say anything at first.

“I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have done that!” You turn on your heel and run away from him.

“Y/N! Wait!”

You sprint back through the field towards the house. Realizing you don’t want to run into Bobby or Sam, you turn at the last moment before running through the fence and veering towards the junkyard. Weaving between rows and clumps until you find the brown canvas sheet hiding your truck, you pull the canvas aside and wretch open the door. Crawling into the bench, you shut and lock the door behind you. 

 

***

You lay on the bench seat staring up at the cab ceiling, rehashing what just happened and how you might fix or explain it away. You got progressively more frustrated with the situation. You still hadn’t told them anything about your deal with Crowley, who you’d come to realize the Winchesters knew as well, making you even more anxious to tell them for fear of what they would think of you if they discovered your deal.

Suddenly, the lock on the door popped and the door swung open, tearing you from your thoughts. The upside down face of Dean Winchester stared down at you.

“Scoot.”

“No.” You were testing to see if he would just go away.

“Nice try. Now SCOOT.” He gestured to emphasize his command.

Dean slid into the truck after you sat up and moved to the passenger side. He dangled the keys to the truck at you.

“Next time you decide to hide in a real obvious place, maybe you should stop to remember the keys to your truck have been hanging on Bobby’s key rack for the last few months.”

You rolled your eyes at him. 

“So I don’t know what the fuck is that was about back in the field but clearly we have to sort this out if you’re going to keep training.”

“Dean, there is nothing to sort out. I should have kissed you, I’m sorry. Lets just rewind.”

“That’s not how stuff like this works, you know better.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t let myself get close to anyone in that way. I’ll just end up hurting them.” 

“Oh sweetheart, you don’t even know the half of it. You wanna talk about causing people you care for pain, or getting them hurt? Sammy and me are walking talking encyclopedias on the subject. You know why I have such a rep for picking up chicks in bars?”

“So you don’t have to worry about getting close enough to them to hurt ‘em?”

“You got it.”

You stare at the dash, knowing you’re about to get his lecture about why he won’t be with you ever is coming and knowing that it’s doubly true given your problems, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting. The sting of rejection is still there, waiting in the wings for his words to come so that it can slap you across the face. Dean would never want you anyway, and this is just his way of letting any hopes he thinks you entertain, down easy. Not for the first time since living at Bobby’s did you wish things could be different. 

Dean went on, “Hunter’s don’t get to have long happy lives, you know that. We end up dead, usually earlier and more brutally than normal people, and we hurt people on our way out. It’s just a given in our world. Some still try to make love work, but mostly you just end up getting a shitty deal in the end, like our parents, and Bobby and even Sam. I don’t want that for you. I can’t offer you anything other than that.”

“I know. I don’t want to hurt you either. I just feel dumb that I even let myself kiss you. I don’t want to make things weird, with me staying here and learning from you all.”

Dean reached across the bench to grab your hand, “Hey, you are such a hunter already, blaming yourself and being angst-ridden, you’ve got the personality down pat.” He smiled gently at you, “I’m going to try to be better around you.”

You glanced up at him with a confused expression.

“I really like being around you. It feels so easy, but I’m probably just making it worse for the both of us. I’ll try not to touch you anymore, or have you come with me to run around town.” He released his hand from yours as he said it. 

Tears started to well up in your eyes. 

“Hey, Don’t feel bad. This is my fault. I stopped paying attention. I got distracted and let my guard down with you. You’re kind of amazing. You’re strong and stubborn and smart. I can see how hurt you are, and yet you soldier on, and no one had to tell you to suck it up. I really respect that. You learn quick and it’s awesome to watch, like when you kicked Garth’s ass sparring because he underestimated you. You’re going to be an amazing hunter. Us together though, that’s just going to hold you back. It’s hard enough with Sammy, and I know he can beat most anything. I know myself enough to know I won’t be able to watch you put yourself in harms way, I’ll want you to stay back and be safe, or something will figure out that we care about each other and use it against one of us. Believe me I-“

“Dean shut up, I know all that. I know how fucked up love is for hunters, how messed up family is. I-“

“Enough, we are not going to sit here and argue over who gets to take the blame, c’mon.” Dean got out of the truck, stopped and looked around at the old beater and chuckled. “We gave a lot in common, you know. I always go to Baby when I need to get my head straight, too. You know what else helps?”

“What.” You sulked

“Going on a job.”

“Bobby won’t let me.” You protested

“The hell he won’t. You’re ready. We’ll find something quick and easy. In and out, no problem. We’ll take Sam. Bobby can come too if it makes him feel better. Let’s go kid.” Dean grabbed your hand to tug you out of the truck, eyes crinkling and smiling at you, before looking down at your interlocked fingers. His smile dropped as well as your hand. “Shit, sorry.”


	5. Chapter 5 - Song TBD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You go on your first hunt. Of course things go exactly as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the previous chapter, this is still in draft and will be edited and improved later.

 

It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn. Of course it didn’t quite go as planned. When Dean identified a potential haunting at a local high school, Bobby was skeptical about taking you out on your first hunt but agreed that not much could happen to you with the three of them there. 

What you didn’t count on was Garth insisting on tagging along and then trying to be your partner and mentor in the whole situation. You were making your way through the empty school, searching for the thing that tied the ghost to this world, while Sam and Bobby collected the remains, and Dean tried to keep its attention. Garth continually quipped one-liners at you until you gave him a stony-faced bitch stare in the middle of the gym.

“Fine, I guess you’re the grouch in this partnership. Which makes you the Dean, and me Sam. At least I get to be the smart one.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Dude, you are so the De-“ Garth was suddenly thrown into the wall, as the ghost of the 16 year old cheerleader went to rush him again. You swung your lead pipe through her, giving Garth a chance to get back up. 

“We better get to the locker room” Garth yelled as the two of you sprinted across the remainder of the gym. Bursting through the door of the boys locker room, you’re instantly thrown into a row of lockers. 

The ghost grabs you by the neck and begins to haul you upright, hissing and spitting catty insults.

“Garth, find the jacket!” you manage to yell. You struggle to reach for the pipe you dropped when you were ambushed and your fingertips just barely brush it trying to roll it towards you. You hear Garth slamming lockers open searching to the right one. 

The ghost uses it grip on your neck to slam your head into the lockers again, making you see stars. She raises you high enough you lose contact with the pipe. 

“You dumb slut. He’ll never love you like he loved me.” She spits at you lifting until just the tips of your toes are keeping all of your weight from your neck. Instinct tells you to try to claw her hands from your neck but knowledge and training reminds you that your hands will simply pass through hers. You force yourself instead to reach down into your jacket pocket and grasp the fishing weight Bobby gave you as a lucky charm.

“Got it!” you hear Garth yell as your hand wraps around the small lead pyramid in your pocket. 

“Hey! Bitch!” the locker room door slams open and you see the silhouette of Dean illuminated in the dark opening. 

You use the interruption to slam the fishing weight into the ghosts would be all-American perfect face and she disintegrates again. Dropping to the floor in a crouch you grab the pipe, coughing and gasping. 

“Garth you better hurry up with that jacket!” Dean cocks his shotgun. “She’s pissed.”

“I always fucking hated cheerleaders.” You rasp as you pull the canister of salt and kerosene from the bag Dean dropped when he ran into the room.

“Sam and Bobby are almost here with her remains. Turns out her mom kept a lock of her hair. It was hell to convincer her to part with it, I guess.” Dean covered you while you organized the supplies you’d need. 

“Ok. Let’s get to the showers, there’s only one way in there.” Garth rounded the corner with the cheerleader’s ex boyfriend’s letterman jacket. 

“Finally!” The three of you bolt to the tiled room in the corner and you quickly draw a line of salt across the opening. You’ve barely finished it when ghosts face appears before yours, prevented from getting any closer by the salt. 

“That jacket is mine. He doesn’t love you, you were just easy. He and I are forever.”

“What-ever!” you sass with a valley girl accent and a flip of your hair. 

A hand wraps around your elbow and pulls you up and back. 

“Easy there, tiger. No need to piss her off anymore.” Dean’s voice rumbles in your ear as he pulls you to your feet and hands you the shot gun. “We want to keep her busy but not get her overly excited.”

The ghost stands on the other side of the salt line glaring at you from beneath her perfect eyebrows. 

“What happens when they disintegrate?” You ask.

Garth speaks up “They’re ripped apart. It shoots them back to where ever they came from, where they resemble and return.”

“But, does it hurt?”

“Probably.”

You suddenly pity the ghost; a girl, so stuck on her high school status she haunts her ex-boyfriend’s letterman jacket, getting ripped apart over and over again tonight. Except for the car crash that took her life, she’d probably never experienced real pain before. 

Dean taps your shoulder and shows you a text from Sam stating that he and Bobby just arrived and were headed to meet the three of you. He hands you the shotgun You take aim at the ghost just as Bobby and Sam slam through the door. You fire on the cheerleader to give Bobby and Sam time to get to you.  Buckshot scattered and imbedded itself in the lockers behind the ghost. She remained where she was, glaring, fixated on you. 

“Garth?”

“Shit Dean, I gave you the wrong bullets.” Garth was splashing kerosene on the jacket. Sam and Bobby are running to you as the ghost wheels around and catches site of them. 

Before you even comprehend what you’ve decided to do, you jump over the salt line, “Come and get me, Bitch!”

“Y/N, no!” You feel Dean’s fingertips brush the back of your jacket as you leap away. The ghost spins around and faces back to you, jealousy burning in her eyes. 

“C’mon, Buffy. You just gonna let me steal your man?” You taunt as you bolt the opposite direction of Sam and Bobby. The ghost materializes before you and slams you side ways into the concrete wall. Before you can catch your breath she throws you into the lockers, denting them and cracking something in you. 

“Mine!” she screams and prepares to rush you again. Just as she’s upon you, she bursts into flames, as Dean runs straight through her and almost into you. 

He stops short before crushing you again, though his body is pressed against yours. “Dammit, Y/N.” He grunts lowly.

There’s a rustling sound and a deep voice erupts from behind the large man, “Dean are you alright? I felt your panic.”

“Great the cavalry’s finally here.” Dean moves away from you turning to reveal a confused looking man, with mussed up hair and a trench coat. 

“So, you’re ok?” 

“Yes, Cas. Just nerves during a hunt.” 

“But I felt you call for me, you were extraordinarily fearful.”

“Can it, Cas.”

Dean turns back to you, “Y/N meet Castiel, the most awkward angel to ever earn his wings.” You’d been told about angels along with all the other monsters and demons the guys had taught you about, but you didn’t really believe they existed until you laid eyes on him. Yep, certainly angelic. 

Castiel takes your hand to shake it, “I see now.”

“No, you don’t. There’s nothing to ‘see’ here.” Dean gives Cas a stern look, which confuses the angel even more. 

 

You walk back into the showers to see Sam and Garth rinsing the ashes down the shower drain. “This isn’t very dignified,” you hear Sam apologize. Bobby steps up to stop you before get to them. 

“You! You damned fool. What in the hell were you thinking? You ever pull a stunt like that again and I’l-“

“Bobby, giver her a break. It’s not like she didn’t do exactly what the rest of us have done at some point.” Sam claps a large hand on Bobby’s shoulder.

“Well, we know your all damn idgits. I don’t want Y/N learning all the Winchester bad habits.” Bobby pulls you into a bear hug and you wince.

“Easy Bobby, I’m a little banged up,” you rasp throat still sore from earlier along with the yelling you were doing.

The lights in the room flick on and Dean storms over to you, clearly angry. When he reaches you though, he gently cups your chin and lifts if to reveal deep bruises forming around your neck, they probably matched the once you saw developing on your face in the locker room mirror. 

“You should see the other guy.” You laugh and wince. “That crack earlier must have been a rib.” You try to laugh more but you can’t get enough air and the room starts to weave and spin around you. Dean lifts your hair away from your face to reveal a gash where your head hit either the locker or the wall earlier, you can’t really remember all the details now. 

“Cas, a little help please. I think she has a concussion too.”

You see the angel walk up behind Dean, and you swear he has kind of an electric blue aura surrounding him. “So, pretty, you glow, that’s cool.”

“And you’re high as a kite. Ok kid, Cas is gonna fix you up, but I’ll warn ya, with a goose egg like that it’ll probably knock you out.” Dean slips his arm behind your back to support you as Castiel approaches you, index and middle fingers outstretched. “Sweet dreams,” you hear Dean mumble. Then blackness. 

 

You dream you’re sitting in a hard wooded chair in a stone hall. There are arches and columns leading down into darkness, but you can’t make out any walls nearby. 

First your mom and dad appear before you, looking the same way they did the day they died, except that their eyes burn, lit from within.

“We are so disappointed in you.” Your dad states tonelessly.

“I can’t believe we sacrificed our lives to protect you.” Your mom’s dead voice hits your ears next.  They both stare down on you with flat looks on their face. Like they’re examining a science experiment that’s not particularly interesting. 

Your grandmother materializes next. “You stupid girl!” Her eyes flood black. “Crowley always gets his payment.”

Bobby, Sam and Garth take her place. They speak in unison, “We trusted you. We helped you. You lied to us.”

They disappear and you close your eyes, tears streaming from them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought I could control it.”

When you opened your eyes, Dean’s face was a few inches from your own. His eyes close enough you could see the brown flecks in the green orbs. His hand brushed your tears off your cheek as his own leaked down his face. “Why, Y/N? How could you do this to me, Y/N? Y/N? Y/N?”

 

You eyes flew open again, and you can see the interior of the impala around you. Dean’s hand is indeed touching your tear soaked face.  

“Are you ok? You just started crying and moaning. I had to pull over and make sure you were ok.” Deans thumb trailed across your cheek. 

“I’m fine.” You struggle to sit up and pull yourself together.

“Yeah, that’s what we all say. Sammy, you wanna drive?” Dean slides in next to you in the back seat, leaving a generous amount of room between you. 

Sam looks back at the two of you, concern and something like resignation all over his face. He gets out and walks around the Impala climbing in the driver’s side. Once in he looks back at you again as he pulls the car back onto the road. Though Sam had been supportive of your choice to become a hunter, he always seemed to be a little eager to give you an out or to warn you about certain things. After a few minutes he speaks up again, “So was it the fight? Nightmares are kinda impossible to avoid as a hunter.”

You settle for a half-truth, “No. Just the same ol’ same ol’, losing my whole family and then everyone else I care about, ya know. Just regular stuff.” You try to joke a little, but Sam is still serious in the front seat and Dean is staring out the window, deep in concentration about something.

“Guys, its ok. It’s been like this for months, I’m kinda getting used to it.”

Dean finally breaks his trance, “Sure it will, kid.” He removes his flannel, shoulders rippling as he does so, and folds it up in his lap. He gives you a long look before breathing deeply and pulling you across the back seat so you’re lying with your head in his lap, on the makeshift pillow that smells like him. Dean starts running his fingers through your hair, soothing your jumpy nerves. As sleep begins to over take you, you can’t help but mumble “So much for no touching.”

  
  



End file.
